


A Song Without Words

by AwkwardFortuna



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Character Study, Classical Music, Copley's wife was a pianist! Change my mind(Jk u can't), Crying, Drabble, F/M, First Kiss, Grief/Mourning, I wrote this quickly, M/M, Men Crying, Music, Piano, Short One Shot, Wine, set almost directly after the movie's events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:26:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26873641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwkwardFortuna/pseuds/AwkwardFortuna
Summary: James lets out a quiet little gasp, he grabs onto Booker's wrist like an anchor and Booker revels in the sweetness, the taste of wine still on his lips, the feel of his mouth pressed warmly against his own. Booker deepens the kiss as James tightens his grip, a soft moan slips out of him and Booker wants nothing more than to chase that sound and encourage more from him, but then Copley is leaning back, effectively breaking their kiss, eyes dark and heavy with something that Booker can not identity.
Relationships: Booker | Sebastian le Livre & James Copley, Booker | Sebastien le Livre/James Copley, James Copley/James Copley's Wife
Comments: 9
Kudos: 28





	A Song Without Words

Their first kiss is a somber affair, one born from too much wine and desperation for comfort.

The two of them; Copley and Booker, are wine drunk, exchanging pleasantries, small-talk, and anecdotes, anything to prolong the fact that once the bottle is empty, Booker will have to leave not only Copley’s presence but London in and of itself. The Old Guard is still here, after all, trying their best to heal and to get their ducks in a row before moving on to someplace that Booker doesn’t know about. _Can’t_ know about.

There is no doubt in his mind that Copley knows the location and maybe that’s why he’s here, really, to get some form of information out of the man, but even that would be stooping too low, although Booker has already found a home for himself at rock-bottom, so he bites his tongue until the taste of copper fills his mouth, swallowing down the questions that he so desperately wants to ask.

_The wine at least makes the taste of blood a bit sweeter._

The ex-CIA agent’s research is still up, and the images of Andromache, Nicky and Joe, are starting to make Booker's chest ache.

“Do you play?” Booker asks gruffly, motioning towards the piano in the room and doing his best to ignore the photographs of his family’s faces. Booker heads over to it, he grazes his hands over the ivory keys, caressing and encouraging the smallest hints of sound while layers of dust collect at the tips of his fingers.

Copley turns toward him and the piano, wine glass terribly unbalanced in his hands “Hmm?” 

For a moment, Booker thinks it’s going to spill on the plush and expensive carpet beneath their feet but then Copley is quick to right himself with a drunken chuckle, before setting his glass down safely at the corner of his desk.

“No, no. I can’t play.”

“Then why-“

“It was my wife’s. She uh, she was a pianist.” Copley sighs, thumbing the base of his wine glass with nervous energy. “Maybe you’ve heard of her? Njideka Brown. She toured all throughout Europe before she…before she couldn’t.” 

The man lets out a deep sigh before tilting his head back and drinking the rest of his wine glass in a few quick gulps.

“T-this was her piano and we- we brought it here so that she could still play while recovering…” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes shining in a way that makes Booker feel wrong for staring. “S-she was only able to play for a few months before the disease took even that away from her…it’s been collecting dust ever since.”

Copley rubs at his face, thumbing away a few stray tears that have managed to escape from the corner of his eyes before smiling softly at Booker and motioning at his empty glass. “Care for another?” 

Booker was just going to suggest the same thing.

He walks the bottle over to Copley and reaches out for his glass, pouring until it’s about half-way full.

“It’s so quiet without her,” James says again. “It’s the little things like that which hurt the most, you know? When she was here I never thought about how much sound she made, how much music she brought into my life. The piano, her singing in the shower, the little tunes she used to hum while she was thinking. Even her snoring…I-I took that for granted… I took all of it for granted.”

Booker can remember what it was like when his wife died. The sudden absence of someone so integral to your very existence leaves you devastated and gasping for air at every waking moment of the day. In the wee hours of the night, Booker used to hold himself while the tears fell down his face, sobbing his prayers as if he could somehow summon her back with the sheer power of his grief alone. 

"Does it get better? Over time, I mean?"

Booker's not exactly sure how to answer that. Some days his past bleeds into his present and there is nothing that he can do to shake the grief that threatens to consume him. His wife and his children were wounds that immortality and time would never be able to heal.

Instead of answering, Booker drinks the wine from his glass all in one go, and then, he holds a hand out to Copley.

“Do you trust me?” 

It’s a stupid question to ask. Redundant, really. After all, how could anyone trust him after everything that he’s done? He feels foolish for each second that passes with his hand outstretched but then, miraculously, Copley is reaching out for him.

Booker lifts him up from his office desk, walking the pair of them back towards the grande piano and sitting them down at the bench.

Booker cracks his knuckles, suddenly nervous. For a moment, the wine makes his head swim, the keys blend together before clarifying. He lets his fingers hover over them before turning to James.

“What was Njideka’s favorite song to play?” 

“Why?”

“I asked you to trust me, remember?”

James sighs, resting his head against the piano cover and staring down at the keys, so soft looking in the pale lighting of the moon.

 _“Mendelssohn,”_ Copley says after a beat. “A song without words.”

Alright, then. Much harder than scales or Chopsticks, but Booker was willing to try.

“Close your eyes,” Booker says.

It’s been too long for Booker to remember how each note was supposed to sound _(he was never a master at this,)_ but eventually his hands fall into a sort of muscle memory and after the first few awkward notes that filter out from the piano, he is careening into some semblance of a tune. 

Copley's eyes fall shut at the sound of the first note. It strikes a chord deep within him, the vibrations of the piano thrum beneath his hands like a heartbeat. He had forgotten what it sounded like, so loud and so crisp, shocking in the silence of his home. He's missed this. He's missed _her_ and for a moment, he can pretend that it's Njideka here, playing beside him.

The mere thought of her brings tears to his eyes as the song reaches its end. 

"Thank you," James says, so softly that Booker has to lean in closer just to hear him. There is a slight blush on the man's face and intensity in his almond colored eyes that makes Booker want to close the gap between them.

For a moment, all they do is stare at each other. The last piano note drifts softly in the air between them before fading into silence and then Booker leans in, cupping the sides of his face, brushing the few lingering tears away from his cheeks with his thumb, before pressing a gentle and chaste kiss against his lips.

James lets out a quiet little gasp, he grabs onto Booker's wrist like an anchor and Booker revels in the sweetness, the taste of wine still on his lips, the feel of his mouth pressed warmly against his own. Booker deepens the kiss as James tightens his grip, a soft moan slips out of him and Booker wants nothing more than to chase that sound and encourage more from him but then Copley is leaning back, effectively breaking their kiss, eyes dark and heavy with something that Booker can not identity.

“I-I think... I think you ought to leave now, Booker,” he says. “I’m sorry, but I-I… I just- _I can’t.”_

The room feels unbearably cold now, the wine suddenly tastes rancid on his tongue. He brushes the piano keys by accident as he stands from the piano bench. They clack together in a sour sound, far too sharp for the sudden quiet of the room. He winces.

“Booker-“ Copley tries but Booker cuts him off.

“It’s fine,” Booker says, waving him off as Copley begins to stand. Booker grabs the wine bottle off of Copley’s desk and drinks the last few bitter drops of it.

“Goodnight, Mister Copley.”

"G-goodnight, Sebastian."

**Author's Note:**

> So there's a piano in Copley's office and while it's totally possible that he plays, I personally head canon that his wife was piano player. (How cute would it have been if she played piano while he did his research in the office together???)
> 
> Also! Here's a link to what 'A Song Without Words (AKA Lieder ohne Worte)' sounds like:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RIU70B6K7Ls


End file.
